Hangman
by littlebirds
Summary: On the morning of Hermione's eighteenth birthday, Ron hunts while Harry gathers. One boy is successful while the other is not. At the end of the hour, who is to blame?


Over my shoulder, I watch the wad of blanket on the bottom bunk stretch taut then settle flat. One red, wool toe pokes out into the chill before her knee slides up, the blanket pulling with it, leaving both feet uncovered. I walk back to where she lies and draw the blanket down again, tucking a corner of it under the mattress. No one likes to wake-up with cold feet.

I step outside the tent and walk over to where Harry is standing. I pause for a second and then we both begin to trudge forward. The sun hasn't yet broken over the horizon and the light is still thin and blue. From the murky, green ground, the trees in front of us shoot up black against the indigo sky.

"You know what today is?" I say to Harry as soon as we are out of earshot of the tent. I walk with my eyes down, watching as the dark shapes that are my feet step over the leaves. He doesn't answer, so I go on. "It's the nineteenth. Today's Hermione's birthday."

I feel him turn and stare at me.

"What?" I say.

"You remembered her birthday? You never remember her birthday." Right. And like he does. Every year, we both forget. Every single year since we've known her- and she's never said a word about it.

"Yeah," I snap, "Well, there's not much to do out here but count the days, is there?" And the hours. The minutes. Since the other two don't seem bothered, I have become the timekeeper. I keep track of the sun and shadows. I pay attention to when mealtimes should be, or, rather, when they would be if things weren't so spare. I watch the days grow shorter as the nights stretch on. All of it just another way to count down the seconds until it's my turn to put that bloody locket around my neck, again.

And right on schedule, Harry is ducking out of it and passing it over. In my hand, the thing is light and hollow- like a bone sucked dry- and I hold on to it, putting off the moment when I have to pull the chain apart and slide inside. It's harder every time to make my hand open to take it, harder every time not to heave it into the woods. I need a hangman. Someone to bind my wrists together and force the noose over my head, so to speak. It doesn't help that, even in the semi-darkness, I can see how happy he looks to be rid of it, and I turn off, ready to be shot of him for a few minutes so I can slip the damn thing in my pocket for a while before they need to see me wearing it.

I wind my way through the trees, meandering pointlessly, listening for something to jump up and scurry away so I can follow after it. I'll call it 'hunting', but really it's just waiting- waiting for something to reveal itself, waiting for something to cross my path. There's no skill in waiting, though, so I'll call it 'hunting' to try to make it sound like I've been doing something worthwhile, even if I have nought to show for it.

Still, as the sun rises, I try to move slowly, quietly, just to keep the peace in the forest. My shoelace starts to flop against the sole of my boot and I bend down to re-tie it. That's when I spot the little bugger sitting, chewing, between the roots of two close growing trees.

The rabbit's lip slides over its teeth as it nibbles the grass pushing up through the brown and gold leaves. The two plump half-moons twitch as its nostrils flare wide, sniffing at the green shoots before taking a bite.

My plan is to stun it and then finish it off by hand. Shouldn't be hard. I've got my wand and an empty stomach. And it's nature's way, and all. So.

Right.

I grip my wand and take one deep, silent breath. I watch this thing- our breakfast- huffing and puffing, it's lean, little body pulsing with quick breaths, and I roll my foot forward until something snaps beneath my boot. It lifts its head, and I can see its big, round, bunny eye shining like a puddle of chocolate, glossy and brown.

And I can't lift my arm. I cannot watch that eye go dead.

I can't twist the life out of this creature. I can't listen to its tiny yell or feel its warm fur relax into a sack of flesh in my hands. Even if it is meat instead of mushrooms. Even though it is Hermione's birthday and this might be the best meal we've had since we've been out here, I can't kill this animal.

I am a piss-poor excuse of a man.

"Go on then," I say aloud. Its ears flip down and then it darts away, the hind legs kicking up bits of leaf and black dirt. "If you had green eyes, you'd have been stew," I mutter, then feel guilty for saying such a thing aloud. Even if it's true.

I point my wand off to my right and try to summon some nuts, but nothing comes. I try again to the left: No joy. I walk over to the trees where the rabbit had been eating and sweep the leaves away from around the roots. There I find a fine cache of edible fungi.

Excellent.

I kneel and begin to pick at the rubbery stems, holding my breath and listening to Harry scuffling off in the distance. Maybe it's because he grew up surrounded by pavements and short grass, but no matter how far off he goes, I can hear him crackling through the leaves. It's not that he's _so_ loud, but still. I always know where he is in the forest. Always.

Now, Hermione, for a girl who's not particularly graceful, otherwise, she knows how to pick up her feet in the woods. With no walls or ceilings to push in or down, she moves out here like nowhere else, like this is the sort of place she was born to be. I could watch her stroll around for hours, if it wasn't so nerve-wracking. Watch her stoop and bend and gather. Only I'm never sure that I'm the only one watching, so, in the end, it's much easier when she's just sitting, being still.

She is standing a short way from the tent as I walk up. I can see her looking around, listening for us, her hair loose and spiraling all over. I keep walking and she turns my way. She is facing into the sun behind me and I see her cheeks burned pink just below her eyes. She squints in my direction and smiles.

"There you are."

Here I am.

"I was wondering where you'd gone off to." She leans forward as I walk past. An accident, she quickly corrects by shifting her weight to her back foot. One hand goes behind her and the other pushes at her hair. I watch her hands so as not to stare at her face.

"Off hunting," I say.

"Any luck?"

"Just some mushrooms." I tumble my spoils into the billy and accidentally breathe in. The dark, suffocating smell of earth and the unwashed, nutty mank of the mushrooms hangs in my throat. My mouth goes all watery and I turn, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of spit until the gaggy feeling finally starts to go. In those few seconds, the sounds of everything all around are amplified. A bird warbling above, Harry's heels shifting every leaf in his path somewhere way off, Hermione breathing next to me. I blink several times and lift my head for a gulp of clean air. I move away from the can and sit down. Hermione looks at me over her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" She squats in front of me. "Ron?"

"'M fine." I stare straight ahead, straight to where her collarbone is crossed by the V of her T-shirt. I want to lean forward and rest the bridge of my nose against that bone, to feel it, sharp and cool, across my eyelids. I want to press my cheek to the bare skin beneath her neck and smell the ghost-gray cotton of her cardigan.

"You sure? You've gone a bit green. I'll get you some water." I watch as her legs walk past me and disappear into the tent. I don't really need water, but I take it from her when she offers me the cup. She settles down next to me, and folds her legs to the side. She grasps her ankle, pulling it in closer, and her fingers nearly meet around the bottom of her jeans. Skinny ankles, yes, and lovely, long legs. Aunt Muriel is a stupid cow. I will not force anything stupid on Hermione today.

"Was it your arm, just now?" She asks. She pulls the ribbed cuffs of her cardigan over her hands, hiding her thumbs away.

The arm does bother me. The scar pulls and feels tight, like if I move the wrong way, if I stress it too much, then the whole thing might rip wide open again. And so I almost say yeah, that's it, because what poor, sad sod gets sick from the smell of mushrooms? But I don't want to lie to her, and I don't want to tell her the truth, so instead, I just shrug and don't say anything at all.

And, for a few seconds, there is nothing but silence while she waits for more, silence while I refuse to give it to her.

"Hermione?"

"Hm?"

"I was thinking, maybe, later today I could take a bit of money, maybe buy some actual food for tonight since…."

She holds out her hand, pointer finger up, to stop me, and I'm getting ready for the 'It's too dangerous' lecture when she rises up on her knees, then on to her feet. She stands and turns, looking over the tent and into the trees. Her face whips from side to side. I can see the white tips of her teeth between her lips. Her brows draw together.

"What?" I ask when she steps away.

"Can you hear anything?" Her shoulders are back and her neck stretches long as she scans the forest. I can hear lots of things; the buzz of insects, bullfinch song, the wispy brush of her hair sweeping across her clothes. But none of these is the sound that she's listening for.

She stands with her feet apart, one heel up, and her back to me. The tension from her body roots into the earth until I can feel it vibrate through the ground beneath me. It seeps up into every tree and surges through the limbs and twigs until every leaf trembles, until the entire forest shifts and sighs, calling Harry back to her.

And maybe I've gone barmy and it was just the wind, after all, but the very next second I hear him moving, coming our way. She turns toward the sound, facing me, and her eyes fix on him over the top of the tent. Her shoulders relax, her chest rises and sinks down, and then she walks back to where I still sit.

She drops down next to me again, sitting pretzel-legged, her back one long curve forward. I look at her, I see that she is speaking, but I don't hear what she says. Instead, my ears fill with the sound of leaves scattering, the sound of Harry crushing them to dust beneath his boots.

I nod my head at whatever she is saying. Yes, she is right. It is too risky. We do, indeed,still have some walnuts.

And all the time his steps are louder and closer.

He rounds the corner of the tent, his arms loaded with sticks. We both turn and watch as he walks over and then stops before us, shifting the weight of the pile to one side. Carefully he kneels, steadying the wood with his chin as his arm curls around, his fingers spreading wide to keep a hold on it all. With his free hand, he grasps one thin branch from the top of the heap, lifting it gently. On the branch, little flowers hang quivering from delicate, green stems. The bursts of rosy pink and shiny, bright orange gleam in the sunlight filtering through the trees.

And he could just hand it to her, but instead he places it on the ground in front of her. The pink flowers fan out against the green, gold, and red, and even I can see how beautiful it is- his offering to my goddess, resting on an altar of autumn leaves.

"Happy birthday, Hermione," he says. Then he stands and steps away.

"Thank you," she mutters. We both watch him disappear around the tent, and then she reaches out and plucks the branch from the ground. "Spindle," she says, softly. Her eyes flutter over it and her lips part in a tiny smile. "It's quite pretty, isn't it?" She turns it over in her hand and looks at me. "You know, the orange bits are poisonous."

"Really?" I say.

Somehow, that just figures.

Harry clatters about with his armload of sticks around the corner. She turns her face from me and looks toward the sound, waiting.

It's not even 8 A.M., yet. The sun has only barely begun to warm away the night's chill. The forest still has its crisp, promising, new-day smell, but, already, I don't think I can stand this anymore. I can't stand being too slow and too scared to tell her that every time I look at her something inside me clenches, then comes undone. I can't stand the fact that Harry has impeccable timing, while mine isn't for shit. I hate it that I came back to her empty handed, and he did not. I hate that there is nothing in this world that I can do for her that he can't do better.

He rounds the corner, brushing dirt and moss and bits of bark from where it clings to his chest and arms. He lifts his eyes and grins at her. He says we camped on the wrong side of the ridge, that on the other side the forest sort of changes. Instead of the Ash and Elm over here, there is a grove of old, gnarled somethings, Oak or Hornbeam, maybe. There is a whole, big bush of what she has in her hand, and one with white buds, as well.

From the corner of my eye, I watch her shoulders angle toward him and her face tilt upward as she listens. I look up and neither of them meets my eye. I have no part in this conversation.

"I think," she says, rolling on to her shins and then standing, "that I must go have a look." Her fingers flash pale as she sweeps the damp dirt from her bum and then her knees. She gives her head a little shake to clear the hair from her eyes, and I look away from her, down to where her boot is perpendicular to mine, waiting for her feet to move forward.

"You coming, Ron?"

My eyes flick up to her face, then back down to the Spindle branch she still holds in her hand. Hermione's cheeks and those flowers, they are the same colour, only different shades.

"No, you go on," I say, slightly rotating my scarred arm forward. "I'm going to stay. Drink my water." The two of them are free to take off. Free to go do whatever it is they do when I'm not around.

There's a beat of silence, then two. "All right, then," I hear her say, but, for a moment, she doesn't move. When she does start off, she walks alone. I turn to where Harry stands, and as soon as our eyes meet, he looks away.

He ambles off after her, and I stare into the blinding, white sun, listening as his footsteps seamlessly overtake the sound of hers. And I wonder how often I have heard this, mistaking it for him, alone. How often have I listened to the sound of the two of them walking away?

_Eleven more hours_, I tell myself. If I can make it eleven more hours, I can pass the bloody thing on. Eleven more hours, and then this won't hurt so bad.

I press my fingers to my heart, right where the locket usually rests. The place where it should be is empty and flat, and for a moment I panic before I remember, and then plunge my hand into my jeans pocket, closing my fingers around it.

I drag the thing out into the light. Clutching it in my hand, I fight down one breath, forcing it past the suffocating mass that pushes against my throat and crowds my lungs.

I pull my golden noose wide. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, then slip my head, my heart, inside.

.


End file.
